Valiant Both Alike
by Peradan
Summary: Prequel to Better Choice. Faramir went to Rivendell, but first he went to Edoras. What happened there?
1. Chapter 1

Like a blast of cold air, he entered their lives, and left nearly as quickly. They were suspicious, at first, not trusting this pampered southerner with his rich clothing and lilting accent. He was nothing like the men she had known before, dwarfing most of the Riders, and standing considerably above even her brother and cousin. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. He did not have the sheer strength of her kin, was instead slender and agile, moving so quickly and silently that he seemed to appear and disappear at will.

She could remember her grandmother, a southerner like this one. Even into her nineties, the Queen had stood tall and straight, her hair still dark, although streaked with silver and her face lined but not wrinkled. And when her will was crossed, she looked beautiful and terrible, her clear grey eyes blazing so brightly that the children dared not look into them. _Witch_ some had called her, and they were never certain whether she was or not. In six months' time, she had aged twenty years before their eyes and died before she could suffer decrepitude or senility.

She had not thought of her grandmother in years, for present griefs occupied most of her mind, but somehow this lord from Mundburg reminded her of the Queen. It was mostly about the eyes, she thought; for this stranger's eyes were not only the same clear grey as her grandmother's, but shone like stars in his pale face. She had heard tales of the great Men of the West who had risen up, as it seemed, out of the very sea, the light of the uttermost west in their faces. They were akin to the wizards, some said, for they had wrought works that could only be enchantment, Orthanc where their wizard-ally dwelt, and Mundburg, and staves that returned to their owners. The other southerners did not seem as if they could be heirs of the Westmen, as the tales said they were, and they certainly displayed no skills at enchantment to battle the evil to the East — but she looked at him, and thought of the stories, and of her grandmother, and wondered.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: **This is simply another draft of the same thing (sorry) — but I'm not certain which I like more. This is an elaboration of three lines I wrote for my own fanfic challenge at Emyn Arnen. Oh, and my treatment of the __Númenórean Faramir is inspired by a line from the Silmarillion: "__Therefore they grew wise and glorious, and in all things more like to the Firstborn than any other of the kindreds of Men; and they were tall, taller than the tallest of the sons of Middle-earth; and the light of their eyes was like the bright stars."_

_------ _

_Do you carry a blade, lady Éowyn?_

He is seated beside her, eating with a hearty appetite. Almost he could be one of her people, were it not for his black hair and pale, almost ashen, skin—he looks like a man who has not so much as stepped out of doors in ten years. And — well, perhaps not one of her people, but not so different, either. It is easier to speak to him, think of him, now, when he is sitting down and there is no unrelenting sunlight to highlight the differences between them. And so they talk, of inconsequential things, and she hardly notices the line between his brows that quickly disappears.

Later they stand by the window, and he asks her — such a strange question, but in these days, not so strange. Before he came, it seemed as if all grew dark around her, and it will be dark again when he leaves. She has herself considered the matter, although she does not dare ask herself why. Instead she asks him, trusting that he will have the answer, and more, speak to her. He is not a man to whom deceits of any kind come easily.

_No; why do you ask? _

She is proud of the steadiness of her voice, but when she peers up at him — absentmindedly rubbing her neck as she does so, for he is by far the tallest man she has ever seen — his face has changed. She remembers her grandmother the Queen whose eyes were the same clear, calm grey as Faramir's, but which, when the mood took her, shone so brightly in her pale face so that no-one dared look at her. Some said _witch_, and she was never certain whether they were right or not. Faramir's eyes are blazing like stars now, and his gaze travels around the room, until it settles upon the most unlikely target imaginable — Gríma Wormtongue.

_I would advise that you do so. _

She takes his advice.

The next day, he leaves to follow his dream, but his last private words are for her. She can hardly make them out, for they are simply a blessing in what her grandmother called the noble tongue, but she understands _híril-nín _and _elenath_. So, when Gríma tries to poison his mind with her clever words, she thinks of the knife concealed at her side, and of her grandmother and Faramir with their lilting voices and bright eyes, and for now, she does not listen.

_the Sindarin words are "my lady" and "stars." The actual blessing was, "May the stars shine upon your path, my lady."_

_**Meg Ishiro: **Thank you very much for your reviews. This is just a little thing, but I think I shall continue with it, along with the others. I'm glad you didn't think the description wasn't . . . overdone. _

_**Gypsie Rose: **I am deeply honoured to be reviewed by you! Thanks so much for your praise. And you are absolutely right about the Númenóreans. I started writing fanfiction out of pure frustration with their treatment in the movies and fanon. When Mithrandir tells Pippin about the blood of Númenor running true, I don't think he's talking about black hair and grey eyes. They **should** be different from other people; as Faramir, in TTT, is quite definitely "different." So you noticed Faramir's more unique capabilities too? I'm so glad **someone **did; when he says "But I do not think you are holden to go to Cirith Ungol, of which he has told you less than he knows. That much I perceived clearly in his mind" he's clearly not making mere intuitive guesses. I'm glad you liked it, and the association with Morwen (who is a cousin of Prince Adrahil, Faramir's maternal grandfather).  
_


	3. Chapter 3

_"It is good to find a kinsman thus kindly at need."_

The Lord Faramir did not seem greatly angered by her uncle's distinct lack of cordiality, or even deeply upset; his voice was cold, but free of any personal rancour. There was a trace of annoyance in his brilliant grey eyes, but also amusement; although what he could find to be amused about what was beyond her comprehension. That didn't matter, though; what mattered was that he was not offended, would not return to Mundburg to speak of his deplorable treatment by the wild horsemen of the north. They did not dare lose friendship with Gondor; and Faramir was not a mere ambassador, but a son of the Steward.

She had changed her mind about him quickly. At first, she could not help but think he was one of those petty, self-serving aristocrats, the sort who never set a foot out of doors if they could help it. He was much slenderer than her folk, and his skin was far too pale for a true warrior's; even fairer than her own. Yet when she looked at him properly, she saw that here was one who no Rider of the Mark would outmatch. No, he doubtless had spent many years wielding a weapon; how long, she could not say. He looked a little younger than her brother, about five-and-twenty; but his eyes were older. 

Astonishingly, Lord Faramir's stern words seemed to bring Théoden back to himself. Soon they were exchanging pleasantries, and Faramir was welcomed to take one of their best horses with him on his errand. It fell to Éowyn to take him to his rooms. 

"I hope you find them to your liking," she ventured.

Faramir smiled down at her (for he was a great deal taller than she). "I am certain I shall," he assured her. Then his brows knit together, and he glanced over his shoulder, almost as if he expected to be followed. "Please forgive my presumption, lady; but is all well in Rohan?"

Éowyn opened her mouth to — she did not know what; she longed to confide in him, as she could not to her brother and cousin, and perhaps she might have — but her sensitive ears caught the small shuffling sound, and her skin crawled. She looked over at Faramir, heart pounding; his hearing was no less sharp than hers. His hand flew to his sword-hilt, but he did not move; indeed, she did not think she had any human being stand so still.

It was somehow no surprise when Gríma, her uncle's most trusted counsellor, crawled out of the shadows. He always seemed present, offering her assistance and support. She had no real reason to distrust him, except that she could never perceive his true thoughts or feelings. He was eloquent; each word seemed to have been thought-out beforetime. And she did not like his appearance, his heavy-lidded dark eyes that seemed to rest on her too often, his thinning colourless hair, the slight dampness that seemed to coat his skin. It was not his fault he was so unattractive, surely, but—

"Master Gríma," she said, with a forced smile. "I did not expect to see you."

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Faramir appeared to relax slightly, but he did not move his hand. "My lady," Gríma said, bowing respectfully, and turning to Faramir. "My lord, please forgive my intrusion. There is a matter I wish to speak on, which may concern your . . . errand."

Éowyn glanced over at Faramir. His expression had changed subtly; there was no longer any warmth or friendliness in it; or even the grave composure that had first drawn her to him, in admiration (and perhaps a little envy). Now his face looked as if it had been carved in ivory, and he looked at Gríma with icy grey eyes. Gríma perhaps meant to be intimidating, but he looked like a rather pathetic mouse hunting a particularly fierce cat. Éowyn felt laughter bubbling in her throat at the thought, and ruthlessly suppressed it. After a moment of silence, Faramir inclined his head.

"Perhaps tomorrow morning, I can find some time in which to speak with you, Master — Gríma."

Gríma bowed again, with a lingering glance at Éowyn, and departed. After he was certain to be gone, she let out a breath. "What do you think of him, my lord?"

"Gríma?" Faramir took his hand off his sword hilt. "One of the most disagreeable men I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. He is clever, although doubtless not so clever as he imagines himself."

Éowyn smiled. "There are some who call him 'Wormtongue,' for words are his only weapon, and he can twist them with great ease."

"Yes, he has some skill with words," Faramir said. "I would dearly love to see him at my father's mercy for perhaps ten minutes. He would then learn of his utter lack of consequence, which I daresay would be good for him."

Éowyn laughed; and was surprised at herself. It was long since she had been able to laugh so freely, and certainly not at Gríma's expense. These days, his power was such that they did not dare, not even in secret. It seemed that a darkness had fallen on them here; but Faramir did not see it — no, he did, he had noticed earlier — he was unaffected by it, then. She wished she knew why, and that she could feel the same way herself. 


End file.
